


There are several elephants

by thatsthefrailtyofgenius



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, and a whole lot of pining, derek takes time off work to look after him, i've literally procrastinated with this piece so much oh my god, ice cream and sweetcorn is involved, scott ships delena, stiles has the flu, stiles ships bamon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 06:34:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6459649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsthefrailtyofgenius/pseuds/thatsthefrailtyofgenius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've been writing this for over a year, and you have no idea what a relief it is to finish it. I don't know why it gave me so much trouble, its not that long and it isn't even multi-chapter. </p><p>But I adored working on this; its been so much fun. Also, this is my first ever smut scene! So be gentle. I apologise if its awful or embarrassing. I'm also super insecure about the way I write Stiles; I've learned a lot more about his character since I wrote 'Something I need', and I think I'm getting there, but there are so many talented authors in this fandom that get his voice and personality across so well! I'll get better though, I just need to keep practicing. </p><p>Enjoy, and let me know what you think! I always love talking to you guys about your opinions on my stuff :) xxx</p>
    </blockquote>





	There are several elephants

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing this for over a year, and you have no idea what a relief it is to finish it. I don't know why it gave me so much trouble, its not that long and it isn't even multi-chapter. 
> 
> But I adored working on this; its been so much fun. Also, this is my first ever smut scene! So be gentle. I apologise if its awful or embarrassing. I'm also super insecure about the way I write Stiles; I've learned a lot more about his character since I wrote 'Something I need', and I think I'm getting there, but there are so many talented authors in this fandom that get his voice and personality across so well! I'll get better though, I just need to keep practicing. 
> 
> Enjoy, and let me know what you think! I always love talking to you guys about your opinions on my stuff :) xxx

They haven’t been living together for very long, approximately six months. For the most part, it’s peaceful. They still aren’t particularly close, more than anything it’s out of convenience. Their incomes match perfectly, so they can co-exist in relative quietness with little fuss. Stiles is glad to be honest, because their apartment is fuckin beautiful, and he’s not even a little bit modest about that.

It’s not like they even see each other that much anyway. Derek works at the local baristas as supervising manager– a surprisingly successful money spinner – through the night, and sleeps through the day apart from on weekends. Stiles actually has a normal sleeping pattern, if four hours of broken tossing and turning through the night counts as normal of course. He still has a few issues with the remnants of all that bullshit with the nemeton, despite the fact that nothing particularly big has happened in about a year and a half (unless you’re counting the little hiccup with the medusa head the previous summer).

Stiles studies through the day. He takes online classes because he’s still having trouble completely recuperating, so he doesn’t think he’ll be able to handle a full campus university; large crowds cause him to have panic attacks. And when he isn’t trying to get the first half of his dissertation completed, he works as his dad’s assistant down at the station.

They still live in Beacon Hills, it’s still their home, it’s where pack is. But they live more on the outskirts somewhere near Derek’s old apartment block, about thirty minutes out from the main strip, and Stiles likes it that way. It allows him to be unapologetically lazy, whilst getting all his work done at the same time. To be honest, they don’t really have time for supernatural disasters anymore; their day to day schedules keep them too busy and relatively occupied.

It’s just this one night that Stiles can’t seem to sleep at all. Not a single part of his bed is comfortable all of a sudden, and he just can’t seem to shut out the crippling anxiety. Eventually, after a couple of hours of huffing and puffing and wiggling about, he gives up on sleeping and sits up. He lets out an extremely frustrated growl and throws his pillow across the room, watching with satisfaction as it knocks several pieces of paper to the floor, glaring at them triumphantly as if their demise somehow lessens his discomfort. It really doesn’t.

He sighs heavily, peeling the sheet away from his body and carefully, weakly moving to stand on his own two feet. He has a horribly shitty taste in his mouth and his head feels kind of like it is full of tissue paper, the growing pressure behind his eye sockets a mere inkling of the inevitable headache he will no doubt be dealing with when the sun starts to come up.

Stumbling blindly, he walks the wide-ish short hallway that opens up into their kitchen and living room. This is his favourite part of the place; the lightly varnished floorboards, the dark red wallpaper and the soft brown sofas. It shares its vast space with their kitchen as well. In fact, the only other real doors and walls in the house, apart from the entrance, are their bedrooms and en suites.

Stiles is making a beeline for the milk when he hears Derek’s key turning in the front door, entering and closing it behind him quietly. Stiles meekly slips into the seat at the kitchen island, having already downed half the carton.

“What are you doing awake?” Derek enters further onto the threshold, frowning at him.

“Can’t sleep. Think I’m coming down with something," Stiles’ partially numbed tongue slurs his words for him. Derek’s frown deepens as he moves to stand on the other side of the counter and lifts the back of his hand to Stiles’ forehead, only to widen his hazel green eyes and startle slightly.

“You’re burning up!”

Stiles shrugs. It’s nothing he doesn’t already know; it’s the awkward kind of heat that offers no relief; it’s why he’s walking around with his shirt off. Although, the both of them do tend to wonder around in various states of undress these days. He supposes it has something to do with their young adult status and the fact that 90% of the time they’re too tired to bother with clothes or getting through their huge piles of washing.

It’s probably also the reason why their living space is such a mess. Stiles swears that he really has been meaning to get rid of the empty pizza boxes and cola cans, he just has a bit of an issue with procrastination when it comes to keeping things clean. Surprisingly, so does Derek. Of course, he doesn’t take kindly to it when Stiles takes pictures of him in the afternoons when he resurfaces, half asleep and half naked, only to upload them to Instagram. Half of his followers assume that he lives with a supermodel, and Derek has given up whining about it.

“Stick the air con on, see if it makes a difference. Our electric bill wasn’t too bad last month so we can manage it. Am I gonna have to take a couple of nights off work, or can Scott handle this?” Derek gets a bowl from one of the top cupboards and fills it with lucky charms, sitting opposite Stiles on his own designated stool.

“Nah, I think I’m good. I can look after myself you know, I’m not completely useless.”

“You’re not useless, you’re just… difficult when you’re ill.”

Most of their conversations go this way; they execute themselves with this strange stoic attitude when they’re dealing with every day hiccups. It’s almost as though Derek is weirdly careful with Stiles, at the same time as revealing more to him than he ever usually reveals to anyone else. To begin with, it had been horribly confusing, but now Stiles is used to it, and most of the time, he just tends to humour Derek and his basic level of neutralism.

“I’m not _that_ bad.”

Okay, so he’s just a little bit whiny whenever he gets ill. He has a petulant personality, and there’s no helping it. He has a natural aptitude for milking sympathy in situations like this. If Stiles is ill, everyone else is going to feel his pain, otherwise there’s literally no other way to get any fun out of it. Apart from the excuse to not work. And to watch endless hours of television. And to wheedle out that small softening in Derek’s eyes that he always manages to get when he’s under the weather. It’s the only time the dude admits that Stiles is actually quite important to him, and that he doesn’t necessarily enjoy watching him suffer as much as he used to.

“Yes, you are, but it never lasts more than a few days, so it’s workable.”

Stiles can’t help the small smile playing at his lips, and it only grows wider when Derek glares at him. If there’s one thing Stiles likes more than orgasms, chocolate, and video games, it’s teasing Derek Hale.

They sit there in silence then, as usual. Derek eats another bowl of cereal, because apparently his exhaustion from working the night shift isn’t outweighing the werewolf hunger after the exertion. Stiles gets a glass and drinks some more milk, slower this time, because his stomach is starting to protest. He doesn’t even notice that there are no lights on, and he forgets that it’s like five thirty in the morning. He doesn’t even register it when he sets his head down on the counter top and relaxes his eyes because that anticipated migraine is kicking off.

* * *

 

He wakes up alone in his bed, the sun streaming through his blinds slightly, and after groaning at how all his limbs are achy and feel stiff and too soft at the same time, he smiles lightly to himself because he realises that Derek probably put him back to bed.

The smile quickly fades however, as the painful throbbing in his skull nudges him further awake. When he tries to sit up, his eyes widen and sting, his diaphragm lurches, and he bolts across the room towards the en suite, tears streaming down his face when the first vomiting session of the day overtakes his body.

When it passes and he manages to get the painful gagging under control, he sniffs, swallows the bitter taste of bile, and drops back against the bathtub, lethargically curling in on himself. He gulps a few more times; trying to ignore the aftershocks sending small ticks of paroxysm down his throat, scraping like coils of barbed wire.

He subconsciously hears a sigh from the doorway, and footsteps coming towards him mixed with the sound of fingers dialling a number on a cell phone. Derek crouches beside him, not reaching out to touch him, but just sort of… being there.

“Yeah, Jim, hi. My flatmate’s been taken ill – yeah. Yeah he’s fine, but it’s the flu, so I’m gonna take a couple of nights off, hang around, irritate him for a while. Alright, Jim, yes fine, I know. Okay, bye," he cuts his babbling manager off with a sharp jab to the screen of his smart phone, reaching behind himself and sliding it back in his pocket.

Stiles feels as though the strength has been sucked from his body like a damn vacuum. His world is spinning from where his head is hung between his knees, and all the muscles in his abdomen are stretched thin, his stomach whimpering around a lingering knot of repugnant queasiness. He’s going to have to sit here for a while before he can move again.

“Dude, get out, I fuckin stink, how are your werewolf senses not tickling your gag reflex?” Stiles groans.

“I don’t have a gag reflex,” Derek replies with a straight face, and Stiles nearly chokes on a snort. The movement triggers a fresh batch of stabbing pains in his tummy and an onslaught of black dots in his vision as his world continues to spin disorient around him.

“I can handle myself," Stiles insists.

“Yeah, right.”

“I can!”

Reaching up with his arm, Stiles attempts to grab the bath tub to try and support his own weight. His legs aren’t having any of it though, and Derek has to duck under Stiles’ other arm to hook it around his shoulders, his own free arm supporting him from the waist. He assists him back to bed, looking partially amused, and worried.

“Dude,” Stiles croaks, “you need to sleep, you were working last night.”

“Yes, but _I’m_ not a pathetic, groaning mess of bacteria on the floor, am I? So shut up and try to go to sleep. I’ll get you a cup of tea and some asprin, and call your dad-”

“Der, it’s the flu, I’m not dying.”

“Funny, that’s not what you said last time you got ill. I recall you sobbing at me to pre-order your headstone if I wanted a discount.”

Stiles has just enough energy to glare at him murderously before flipping onto his side and burying his face into the mattress.

“And I’ll get you a bucket and some air freshener; I don’t want you stinking out the entire apartment,” Derek adds as he leaves the room.

Stiles fumbles for a pillow, throwing it in Derek’s general direction, but collapsing against his bed spread once more when it lands only a couple of feet away due to the lack of strength in his limbs.

* * *

 

When he wakes up again, Derek is crouched beside the bed and it’s nearly dark, eyes searching his face with that frown of concern creasing his brow again. It only takes Stiles a few seconds to realise why; he’s absolutely drenched in sweat, and it’s dripping in beads down his face and arms, smearing across his torso with every tiny movement. His heart is thrumming a too fast against the inside of his rib cage, and the sudden heat is making it difficult for him to breathe.

For a second, white hot panic plagues all his cognitive processes, because the last time he woke up covered head to toe in liquid, it had been blood.

He tries to sit up, gagging slightly for breath, but his arms feel like flimsy pieces of paper and at the same time, heavy as lead. The soreness of his throat and the acrid tang of mucus on his tongue, let him know that he’s probably spent at least the last twelve hours at the mercy of his own recalcitrant digestive system. There are black dots obscuring his eye line again, following his pupils when they dart around the room, trying to think clearly and take in his surroundings even though his skull still feels as though it’s been completely stuffed with dry fluff.

“Der-”

“Don’t try to talk, you idiot,” Derek stops him, slipping a hand in underneath Stiles’ neck, and lifting his head slightly, resting a thermometer in his mouth.

And before Stiles can try to respond, Derek is hauling him out of bed again, taking the majority of his limp body weight, and half-dragging him towards the en suit. He hurriedly sits Stiles down on the closed toilet seat, turning the shower on and switching it to 68, waiting for the shitty water pressure to kick in; one of the less classy features of their apartment.

“Fuck,” Stiles pants, back lolling against the toilet, eyes flickering open and closed, lids heavy. _Everything_ feels heavy and dreary and blurry at the edges and the worst part, is that Stiles is very aware of it. He’s awake, and he can feel his skin burning and the fresh sweat breaking out every couple of seconds. His brain briefly registers the threat of sending his body into shock with rapid temperature change, but he doesn’t care, the heat is unbearable and he just wants some fuckin relief.

Seconds later, Derek sort of half-lifts him into the tub, mostly ignoring Stiles’ almost painful gasp at the cold against hot. It’s too much weight to remain standing, and it hurts to try, so Derek sort of slips them to the bottom and pulls Stiles between his legs. Derek’s natural body heat is there against his back, but it’s cooling under the water and he knows it would have been more dangerous for him to have sat there by himself with no one holding him upright. The heat from Derek’s body, and the water temperature mix well together so that he doesn’t go into cardiac arrest or something, and slowly it starts to stabilise him.

It takes a few minutes of wheezing and desperately dragging oxygen into his lungs, and for a little while he has to fight off a panic attack, but eventually, he feels his heart beat settling, and he actually starts to get a little cold. With the sensation of warmth slowly leaving his body, he sighs groggily, nudging Derek to let him know that it’s okay to get them out, mainly because he doesn’t want the water bill to skyrocket, and also because he doesn’t even think he can form coherent words right now.

Derek takes the hint. Grunting, he manoeuvres Stiles to the other end of the tub, and stands up in his soaked jeans and Henley. He switches the water off, stepping out. Stiles thinks he might die of embarrassment when Derek literally has to help him move like a fuckin baby, but he doesn’t have the energy to make a smart comment about it to lessen his loss of dignity. Instead, he sort of allows himself to be draped over the left side of Derek’s body, and sits obediently when Derek lowers him into the desk chair.

“I need to go get changed. You’re not going to die whilst I’m gone, are you?”

Stiles swallows heavily, blinks, then slowly lifts his head as much as he can, scowling. It probably looks like he’s constipated, but Derek gets the gist, and rolls his eyes, leaving to sort himself out.

Stiles tries to lift his arm to grab his own cell phone from the desk, but fails miserably and nearly falls out of the chair, world spiralling abruptly around him once more. He feels drunk and stoned at the same time, and everything fuckin hurts. He isn’t even sure that the fever is supposed to burn up this fast. The flu is getting to it quicker than normal, and it’s really rather mortifying to be honest. When he imagined himself living away from home, this is not what he had ever expected; it had never been the aim of his game to end up helplessly ill in a cold, wet bath tub with Derek fuckin sourpuss Hale.

About thirty seconds later, Derek returns to the room from the hallway, changed and towelling at his hair. He looks tired, now Stiles is focusing. The fever having been the thing that was fucking up his vision the most. Derek’s hazel eyes, that are _so_ not the prettiest fuckin thing Stiles has ever seen, are lined with a faint redness. It isn’t really fair to be honest; Derek’s boss is a fuckin tightass.

* * *

 

After another twenty-four hours of waking up every half an hour to puke into a bucket, and a very embarrassing incident in which Derek literally has to put him on the fuckin toilet so he can take a piss, Stiles’ body seems to have settled a bit. He supposes that it’s probably a calm before the storm, but he doesn’t give a shit, he’s stopped barfing for the moment, so he’s taking whatever he can get. He knows Derek is passed out on the sofa in the lounge, but he also knows that the big damn idiot has one ear open listening in case he’s needed again.

From the deep black sky that Stiles can see through the half suspended, partially broken blinds that hang above his desk, it’s around three in the morning and is raining. But the street lamps are on outside, so it doesn’t bother him, because the orange light illuminates the droplets of water on the glass, and casts pretty shadows across the walls. It’s very quiet, apart from the wind blowing up a fucking hurricane every now and again outside, and the rain hammering against the apartment building and the cars, and Stiles thinks this might be his favourite time of day.

Everyone is in bed, even the majority of the drunk college students and young offenders that share the block with them, and it’s like there’s a still, breathing consciousness that allows him to feel that everyone in his general vicinity is dreaming. It’s a stillness and peace that he isn’t granted very often, and it’s the only time of day when his head is clear, his mile-a-minute thoughts slowed down to a manageable pace, his heart steady, the rise and fall of his chest indolent and calming. For someone with a brain as fast and hectic as Stiles’, this time in the morning is his break, even if he should really be sleeping.

He listens for about an hour as the rain picks up and he continues to watch the beads of water slam, then trickle down the glass virtuously. It’s almost as though they’re pretending that they’re not causing devastation in several parts of the world at that very moment, and Stiles allows them their moment of innocence.

There’s something kinda really fuckin beautiful about something that can’t be controlled or contained; something that can’t be killed or stopped or slowed down, something that must simply be endured. And Stiles gets to just observe his favourite weather relentlessly doing whatever the fuck it wants against his bedroom window. There’s a weird, really shoddy innuendo in there somewhere, but he’s completely exhausted, so he leaves the thought alone, closing his eyes and letting it fade away to make room for new ones.

* * *

 

Stiles isn’t sure how long he’s been violently ill for now. He supposes two to three days at the most. He wonders when Derek will stop being an insistent asshole and go to work so that they can actually pay the rent this month, but he dismisses the stupid thought immediately. Derek is and always has been almost as stubborn as the rest of the people in Stiles’ life, including himself, so there’s no way the dude is going back to work if he doesn’t want to. He also pretty sure that Derek has a shit load of money in an account in some obscure bank somewhere, so it’s not too much of a worry.

Stiles briefly spoke to his father on the phone around lunchtime the previous day. He only remembers snippets of the Sheriff’s concerned, gruff voice; something to do with water and pills and tomato soup. His dad has been sworn off coming by the apartment by Derek however, due to his status as an equally vulnerable human with an inherently shitty immune system. Stupid werewolves and their stupid supernatural ability to fight off infection.

On the other hand, its times like this when Stiles is reminded of how undoubtedly lucky he is. Scott has been by twice in the past fifteen hours so Derek can crash for a while, and Isaac has sent him several texts promising that he’ll be over with some proper Chinese food the next day, providing that Stiles can sit up by then of course.

Lydia has been ringing Derek off the hook, making demands down the phone, forcing him to go out and buy cocktails of drugs and groceries that will speed up Stiles’ recovery. Allison and the twins had stopped by briefly after college the day before, but that’s a foggy memory too, seeing as he’d been puking up in a bucket for the most part of it.

So Stiles is lucky because even when he has a fever and he’s laid in bed mumbling about unintelligible bullshit, grogged up to his frontal lobe in mucus and coughing his guts up, his friends make the effort to keep an eye on him and make sure that he’s okay.

Surprisingly, the biggest part of that is Derek. Derek Hale. Derek Sourwolf Hale. Derek the sourpuss. Derek the grumpy bunny. Derek. Der. Oh, there it is; his latest round of drugs are kicking in and he can feel his brain getting foggier again as his wired, scratchy eyes start to flutter closed. Derek Hale has taken three days off of work to look after him, to watch over him whilst he’s ejecting all of his body fluids, to make him weird concoctions only approved by Lydia, to drag him off his ass and save his damn life when a fever nearly burned right fucking through him. Alright, so maybe they’re a little more than just roommates.

To be honest, Stiles has known for quite the stretch of time now, that he will be damaged beyond compare if Derek is ever killed or seriously injured. It will get to him in a way that it would if he lost Scott or his father. Stiles has known for a while that he sort of silently considers Derek Hale to be one of his very best friends, and will be seriously fucked up if that ever has to change for the worse in any way.

He becomes more aware of it when they end up in situations like this, where either one of them is dependent on the other for survival. And yes, Stiles knows that it’s just the flu, but he doesn’t give a fuck because he _knows_ , he knows Derek Hale is a big damn softie when it comes to the select few he actually gives a shit about. And for the life of him, Stiles is really fuckin grateful for that.

It’s his last thought before he finally lets himself sleep, his heavy, sluggish body singing with relief when it gets some more of the rest it needs to keep attempting recovery.

* * *

 

“Will you cut it out?” Stiles huffs.

Derek attempts to help him into a stool at the kitchen counter. Stiles’ is still weak, but he manages to feebly shrug him off. Derek sighs and rolls his eyes, getting him the milk carton from the fridge and moving to stand in front of him on the opposite side of the island.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed yet,” Derek says sternly, and Stiles narrows his heavy eyes at him, taking a ridiculous, triumphant swig from the carton, trying to ignore the slight pull of his body trying to get him to lay down again.

“Stiles.”

Derek reaches out and waves his hand in front of his face. Stiles blinks a couple of times, swallows, and nods, drawing in a deep breath.

“Sorry, blanked out again.”

Stiles shakes himself a little, but Derek isn’t stupid. Stiles… well, he’s been through a lot in the last two years. It wasn’t particularly long ago that they managed to get rid of the nogitsune, and he occasionally loses touch with his surroundings; after effects of having a murderous Japanese fox spirit in his head for two months.

Derek doesn’t comment on it when Stiles silently counts his fingers, making sure he’s still got a grip on reality.

“I look so gross right now,” Stiles groans, “like… so gross.”

“You – no. You don’t look gross. You never look gross.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow at him, but decides he doesn’t have the energy to tease him about anything right now, and instead lets his stuffy mind wonder, not really holding down one thought for more than a few seconds at a time. Until he finally settles on something he’s been meaning to inquire about for the past week and a half.

“Why?”

Derek looks up from his plate of cheesy nachos and frowns, unsure as to what on earth he’s on about.

“Why what?” Derek says, dropping the nacho he’d been about to eat and wiping his hands on his jeans, giving Stiles his full attention.

“Why are you doing all of this? I keep telling you that you don’t need to. You should go back to work or we’re gonna lose the apartment.”

Stiles’ voice is still croaky as he grumpily sips at his own small bowl of tomato soup. He’s still having trouble keeping down solids, and too much of anything at all tends to set him off on a three-hour barfing session.

“Stiles-”

“I’m serious, Der," Stiles places his spoon back in the orange liquid and wraps his arms around his torso, feeling a slight cold sweat breaking out on his forehead, "why? It’s not like we’re best buddies or anything. At most, I’m an annoyance that you tolerate because your repressed emotions somehow accept me as part of your life. But you have more important things to be doing.”

“No I don’t,” Derek says immediately, simply, shortly, fixing him with a stare of unidentifiable emotion. After a couple of seconds however, this particular expression is filtered from Stiles’ mental catalogue of ‘Derek faces’, and he recognises it as ‘irritably vulnerable’.

“I don’t understand,” Stiles creases his brow as he sits forward a little, resting his elbows on the kitchen counter around his soup and putting his body weight into it so there’s something supporting it.

“I don’t have anything more important to be doing, I still have inheritance money, we’re not going to lose the apartment just because I’ve taken a week off of work.”

“Yes but _why_?” Stiles urges, more annoyed now, and increasingly drowsy; his latest load of pain meds are kicking in, the prescription heavier now he’s recovering, suggested by the visiting Doctor they’d had around earlier.

“Because you held my paralysed body up in a pool for three hours before we even trusted each other. Because you blew off the first lacrosse match of your season, despite the fact that your father took the night off work for it, to help me find and kill my psychotic uncle. Because you’ve never told anyone about Kate or Paige – yes, you little shit. I know that you know about that, Cora told me."

Derek pauses, narrowing his eyes at him. Stiles coughs awkwardly, but Derek continues.

"Because you took the time to sit and listen to my idiot family telling my damn story, and didn’t trust Peter’s version of events. Because you offered to punch through an abandoned bank with me to save my betas from a crazed pack of alphas. Because we live together and you’re my friend.”

“Oh,” Stiles says a second later, his stuffy, bacteria riddled brain struggling to come up with a deep, grateful, equally emotionally divulging response. Instead he stares for a little while longer before a small grin breaks out on his chapped lips and he nods a couple of times, embarrassingly fighting the urge to cry a little.

There’s a warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest that takes over his senses a little as a result of the way he doesn’t really have control of all of them at the moment, and it’s kind of amazing how Derek can’t help but smirk back at him. Then, Stiles picks up his spoon and continues sipping at his soup, the secret smile remaining on his lips and a couple of moments later, supposedly after gathering his wits about him again, Derek also carries on eating his food.

* * *

 

“Hey, man.”

Stiles slowly opens one eye, blinking at Scott.

Its Derek’s first day back at work. Stiles has insisted that he get the fuck out of the apartment before he proves Deaton’s theory that he has residual powers from the Nogitsune, and after some serious flashing of fangs and claws, the idiot had finally gone back to work.

He’s switched to day shifts because for some reason Stiles is worse during the night. He needs someone to be in the vicinity whilst he’s trying to sleep off the remnants of his illness in case he accidentally falls or suffocates himself trying to move too fast.

Its Derek’s first day back at work and my god Stiles is really fucking glad to see Scott. He’s bored out of his damn mind, and he’s long since finished his rewatch of Orange Is The New Black on Netflix. He’d tried to get up to make himself something to eat afterwards, but found himself just a little too tired to move, and had almost thrown up again.

“Heeeeey," Stiles grins lazily, burrowing more into his corner of cushions and managing to lay his legs out across Scott’s lap when he plonks himself down next to him.

“Aren’t you supposed to be flying out to see Chris today?”

“Yeah, Ali says he’s caught up in some business with a vampire so it’s been put on hold for a week. She’s taken on some extra shifts at the pet store in France, so…”

“So you’ve come to irritate me,” Stiles guesses.

Scott narrows his eyes and pouts.

“Rude,” he says, stealing the tub of ice cream and spoon from Stiles’ hands, flashing a shit eating grin when Stiles literally hisses at him.

“No ice cream for the sick person, it might make you worse.”

“Fuck you, and fuck your super wolf immune system.”

“You’re mean when you’re ill. Actually you’re mean a lot of the time.”

“At least I’m not as mean as you are in the mornings. You _bit_ me Scott, and not even the wolfy kind of bite-”

“You were poking me with a stick!”

“You needed to be up for your morning lecture, don’t be a little bitch about it,” Stiles says, leaning forward and snatching the tub and spoon back with a triumphant expression, winking at him. Scott growls and takes the remote control from the coffee table in front of them, searching for The Vampire Diaries on Netflix.

“Dude, why do you still watch that show? It’s just butchered character development and bullshit canon pairings.”

“You’re just bitter because Bonnie and Damon aren’t together yet.”

“The key word being ‘yet’ my friend, the keyword being ‘yet’,” Stiles remarks blandly, snuggling down into his blankets some more and paying further attention to the television. Season one at least, had been a simpler time.

He stays awake long enough to hear Damon saying the iconic ‘hello, brother’ line at the end of the first episode, and for Scott to shuffle around for ages trying to get comfy. Eventually he ends up laying on top of Stiles, nuzzling his chest. Stiles probably smells a lot like pain and sickness, and it’s probably not the easiest thing for Scott’s heightened senses to deal with. But he welcomes the contact. He thinks, as he slowly falls asleep once more, and Stefan jumps out of a window on the television, that he’s really missed being close to Scott, and can’t remember the last time they’d had a good old cuddle session.

* * *

 

“Smile!”

Erica’s voice plucks him from his dreams and he squints through his heavy eyelids enough to watch her take a picture of them on her IPhone from where she’s stood at the bottom of the sofa. 

“Shut up, we’re adorable. And who the hell gave you a key?”

“That’s why it’s going all over my social networks,” she says, moving to sit on the coffee table, reaching out to press the back of her manicured hand to his forehead.

“Derek sent you, didn’t he?”

“He’s worried about you, and he knows what you and Scott are like when you’re left to your own devices.”

“I resent that statement. We usually just play video games or marathon Queer as Folk.”

“I honestly don’t think I’ve ever met two strictly platonic best friends who are as gay for each other as you and Scott.”

“You’re just jealous of our epic bro love.”

Stiles shifts a little under Scott’s weight. Scott starts to stir, and Stiles feels awful; the kind of guilt that comes from waking a sleeping kitty so that he can move.

“Wasgonon?”

“Sorry, buddy, I gotta barf again.”

“Shit!” Scott groans, sitting up and detangling himself from Stiles’ body, handing him the bucket.

Stiles curls up in a sitting position, and Erica sighs, moving to the arm of the chair beside him, rubbing his back soothingly as he chucks his guts up. After that, Erica hauls him back to bed in her five inch stilettos and wets a flannel for him, placing it on his forehead and cranking his bedroom window open whilst Scott cleans out the bucket in the kitchen.

“Scott’s gonna stay with you for the rest of the day. And stop trying to run before you can walk, you’re just going to keep being sick if you keep insisting that you can move about everywhere.”

She presses a kiss to his cheek, but he’s too lethargic to wipe off the red lip print she’s probably left there, and nods feebly, waving her out of the room. He rolls over, pushing the covers down to his waist and sniffing heavily. He’s so fed up of this. He just wants to be able to breathe properly through his nose again, and to not feel the need to eject his stomach every time he leaves his bedroom.

A little later on, when his temperature has gone back down, Scott comes in, closes the window, and takes the duvet out of its cover. He throws the thin sheet back over him and crawls in behind, strong arms wrapping around his waist, face burying in his neck.

Stiles has a strong suspicion that he does the weird werewolfy pain drain thing, because after ten minutes, he feels significantly better and lighter in his body, for the moment cradled and kept safe by his alpha. Maybe in the morning it will be less difficult to deal with, but for now, he just wants to sleep some more in his best friend’s arms.

* * *

 

“I want pizza!”

Stiles’ voice is louder than he means it to be, dramatically pointing at the BBQ deep pans, causing Derek to roll his eyes and pick it up, dropping it in their trolley. They push it on past the fizzy pop section, which Stiles has been forced to give up due to the havoc it plays on his still recovering tummy.

“And I also want to go back to work."

Derek glares at him sideways for a moment, clearly dismissive of the request. Stiles huffs, but he’s been walking a little too fast, and has to stop for a moment, gripping one of the shelves for support as he tries to breathe deeply in through his nose, and then out through his mouth. After a few seconds, the dizziness dissipates, but Derek still fixes him with a scolding expression, and Stiles thinks that the only way it can get more motherly, is if he puts his hands on his hips and tilts his head to the side.

It’s a lazy Sunday, which means that they had both rolled out of bed and inevitably realised that there was no food in the cupboards. As usual, from there they had sleepily gotten dressed in sweatpants and t-shirts, jumped in Stiles’ jeep, and ended up at their local best buys, bickering over whether Stiles can stomach cake or too much sugar right now.

“You think you can be on deputy duty when you can barely walk through a supermarket without having a turn?”

“Give me a break, Der. I’m not a kid. I just mean that I feel so yucky stuck in the apartment all day every day. Also I carry a gun now, so don’t piss me off.”

“You’re not in the apartment _now_ ,” he says, pettily taking the trolley back and dropping five of his health drinks into it, “and if you shot me, which you won’t – I’d just heal.”

“Flu sucks.”

Stiles picks up a fresh carton of milk, a large load of dollar noodles, and a loaf of budget bread.

“I wouldn’t know,” Derek smirks. Stiles glares and nudges him, setting a new blue nail varnish on top of a box of beer in the trolley, as his other one is running out.

“You shut your stupidly attractive face, mister.”

“What an effective insult.”

Stiles throws his wallet at Derek’s face to no avail, as he reflexively catches it easily just a hair’s breadth away from his nose, winking.

“You’re such an asshole,” Stiles pouts.

“That’s better,” Derek grins, but wraps one arm around Stiles’ neck, tackling him lightly and pulling him along to get the rest of their shopping done, so that the two of them can get home to eat their food and sit on their laptops on their sofa. They usually work for the rest of the day with the Merlin boxset on in the background.

* * *

 

“You boys eat like-”

“College students on minimum wage?” Stiles finishes his father’s sentence, not taking his eyes away from his laptop screen or pausing in his ridiculously fast touch typing. He’s on a roll, another five pages done before lunch time.

“Like young adults with a death wish is more like it.”

John Stilinski goes through their newly stocked cupboards as Derek sits beside Stiles on the sofa, swigging occasionally from his Lucozade, also typing a good hundred words a minute.

“You want me to eat better, you gotta pay me more, pops,” Stiles replies as Merlin rescues Arthur on the television, and Derek pushes his wayfarer frames up to his eyes where they’re slipping down his nose slightly.

“Nice try, kiddo. I’ll have Mel bring some lasagne over tomorrow morning. And don’t whine about your pay grade, I made you deputy a year before I was supposed to.”

“That’s ideal, I’ve been meaning to buy Melissa a coffee for ages now. You’re coming too, k, Der?”

“M’busy,” Derek mumbles, a look of concentration on his stubbled face as he taps away, halfway into the tenth chapter of the new novel he’s working on.

“Bullshit, you’re back to night shifts now, I looked at your phone.”

“Stiles, dammit, I’ve told you about doing that!”

“You’re living with my son now, Derek,” John chuckles, perching on the kitchen island stool with a bowl of chicken noodles, dumping a shit load of soy sauce in and mixing it up, “you gotta get used to having your t-shirts stolen and your privacy invaded.”

Stiles grins, reaffirming his father’s statement, nuzzling the collar of the Star Trek t-shirt he’s commandeered from Derek’s wardrobe.

“By the way it’s super cute that your lock screen is the selfie I took of us outside the Louvre when we were visiting Chris.”

“I hate you so much,” Derek growls, dropping his flushed face in his hands, and Stiles’ grin only gets wider.

“Sure you do, buddy. So much that you took a week off to look after me.”

“You two make me sick. It’s embarrassing to watch you.”

Stiles deliberately ignores his father and pretends he isn’t listening, definitely not wanting to think about the implications behind it right now, and trying to refocus his attention on his work. A little while later, Derek flexes out his fingers and sighs, going to get himself a coffee. He has a long conversation with Stiles’ dad whilst he’s at it, but Stiles continues to block it out, head now fully back in his writing. When he next tunes back in, its seven in the evening and Derek is cooking bagged stir fry for the two of them and the Sheriff has left.

* * *

 

“So, are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?”

Allison approaches the subject again the following month. His flu is cleared up completely now, and after having a bad week in which he’d completely freaked out again, he’d booked a plane ticket to visit Allison, and that’s where he’s been for the past four days. It’s been nice, and he knows he’s made the right decision. There’s something about the warmth of the sun on his face and the smell of French roast coffee in the air that calms him and, at least for the moment, clears his head.

“There are several elephants, you’ll have to be more specific than that," Stiles replies, sipping at his liqueur coffee. He sits back in his chair, sun glinting on his club master sunglasses.

Allison looks healthier than he’s ever seen her. Her hair is growing out again now, but its lighter, bleached by the sun and falling in its natural waves. Her skin, previously pale, is now a shade darker; her pretty brown eyes and ridiculously adorable dimples remain. Apparently, she still has the ability to glare at him like she’s going to stab him in the eye as well, which is why he shifts uncomfortably and swallows.

“Stiles, I’m talking about Derek.”

“You hate Derek.”

Stiles glares at her when she reaches out with her other hand and slides his sunglasses off of his face so that she can look him in the eyes properly.

“No I don’t! I’m healthily weary of him. He murdered my mother, remember?”

“Okay if we’re getting into this again, let me remind you that technically I also murdered several teenagers and ran Scott through with Kira’s Katana.”

She blinks at him, her lips parting slightly before she takes her hand away from her face and lays it over his on the table, "that’s not what I want to talk to you about. I don’t want to trigger you again. I just want to talk about how you’re in love with your roommate and how you’re not doing anything about it.”

“Shut up,” he snorts, “I’m not in love with him. He’s one of my best friends”

“ _I’m_ one of your best friends, do you want to fuck _me_?”

“No! Jesus, Allison, I didn’t need that image in my head.”

“But you want to fuck Derek.”

“No!”

“Bullshit. Everybody wants to fuck Derek.”

“Are you trying to work your way through the pack or something? Who’s next, Erica?”

“That happened last year,” she rolls her eyes, sitting back in her chair again, “keep up.”

“You have a werewolf kink; I swear.”

“I have a healthy preference and you’re in no position to judge, Mr I Want To Fuck Derek Hale So Badly That Its Uncomfortable For Other People To Be Around The Two Of Us Together.”

“Shit, is it that bad?”

“It’s worse, and you just admitted it, ha!”

“Fuck. Look, it’s complicated. We don’t have a relationship like everyone else in the pack does. It’s different for us.”

“Because you’re soulmates.”

“No – what?”

“Yeah, you’re soulmates, like me and Scott. Stiles, sometimes you just meet someone. Someone who makes everything else make sense. It’s different because it’s so much more significant, particularly for someone like you, who’s always desperately trying to make sense of everything all the damn time.”

“But you and Scott aren’t together. You broke up and it ruined your lives.”

“Yes,” she smiles sadly, taking his hand again and bringing his knuckles to her lips.

“It was awful.”

“It was. But I’d do it all again without a moment’s hesitation. And I still have faith. I know we’ll be together again one day. I know I’m destined to spend the rest of my life loving Scott more than anything else in the whole world.”

“That’s really unhealthy though. You’ll never love anyone else. You’ll never know what it’s like to fall in love with someone who isn’t Scott.”

“I don’t _want_ to know. It’s like breathing. It’s just instinctual, and when I stop, it’ll be because I’m dead.”

“ _But I don’t want that_. I don’t want to be a slave to the way I feel about someone for the rest of my life.”

“What about Scott?” Aren’t you going to love him for the rest of your life? He’s like an extra limb to you.”

“That’s – again, that’s different, I made peace with my relationship with Scott before I turned ten. This would be new. I don’t – I’m not ready for that.”

“Love doesn’t give a shit if you’re ready for it, Stiles. And it’s going to get more and more painful to live with your soulmate but not _be_ with him.”

“Is that why you ran away? Because it was too painful?”

“I don’t run away from things. I left to discover a new facet of my personality, because I’m still very young and need to see new places and meet new people and make my own memories. I didn’t run away from Scott, he can come and see me whenever he wants.”

“Tell him that please. I love him very much, but he’s taken to spending all of his free time bugging me because he feels like he can’t bug you.”

“I’ll talk to him. But you guys do fine without me, right?”

“We do alright. Kira and Malia are settling in really well; Cora is still travelling, your dad is hanging out with Isaac a lot, which is kind of weird, but also awesome. Boyd is training to be Scott’s second in combat, Derek is… well, Derek. And I’m assuming you get a day-to-day account of Lydia’s life for your own ears, so I don’t need to catch you up on that,” Stiles tells her.

“I did worry about the newbies for a while, we were quite territorial to begin with. I thought you took a shine to Malia though. What happened there?”

“I take a shine to the post man because he smiles at me every morning. But Malia is amazing, she’s learning pretty quickly, she’s super strong, she knows her value, she’s a damn good detective, and she’s super intuitive. We hang out all the time. Probably too much actually… I don’t think Derek really likes the fact that I spend half my weekend playing call of duty with his cousin in our underwear.”

“That’s because when you met Malia it was like looking at the universe imploding. She’s the best partner in crime you’ve ever had. You’re both just as trashy as one another.”

“Listen, we’re just… morally grey, okay? Every story needs and anti-hero.”

“Stiles, just face it, you’re just two really trashy people. Embrace your trashiness. Wear it like a garbage bag, and it can never hurt you.”

“Did you just… indirectly quote Tyrion Lannister to emphasise my trashiness?”

“Drink your coffee and shh,” she smirks and wets her lips, turning her face back to the sun whilst he laughs slightly, doing as he’s told. He settles back into his chair and draws in a deep breath, letting the anxiety float away and leave him tired, but for the moment, content.

* * *

 

“Bonjour trou du cul," Stiles answers the phone as he leaves the heat of the club, jumping down from the pavement and sitting cross-legged on the curb, "comment vous faire sans moi?"

"Ton français est horrible. Arrête."

“Shut up, I’m trying,” Stiles really is trying, but Derek is right, his French is coming along slowly; and apparently awfully, judging by the drunk Frenchman stood against the wall smoking a cigarette and laughing at him.

“Keep trying,” Derek says.

“Are you missing me?” Stiles asks, huffing and stretching one leg out across the cobblestones in front of him so that he can jiggle it. He gets more fidgety when he’s had a couple of drinks, and he hasn’t had any Adderall today.

“Terribly, I can barely function.”

“I hate you,” Stiles pouts, frowning to himself, his world spinning a little bit.

“You’re drunk,” Derek guesses, but there’s an amused edge to his voice.

“Well done, Der, you’re so clever.”

“I don’t know why you’re saying that in a mocking tone, I speak four languages and basically carry a bestiary around in my head”

“Don’t be cocky, it doesn’t suit you.”

“I could cry about the fact that I indirectly killed my entire family when I was sixteen?”

“Oh my god, please shut up,” Stiles groans, burying his face in his hands even though he can tell Derek is laughing on the other end of the line.

“Why did you call, anyways?” Stiles asks.

“Just wanted to make sure your direct debit went through for the rent this month.”

For a moment, Stiles is slightly disappointed. He covers it well though, replying immediately in a nonchalant tone.

“Yeah I got an email confirming it this morning, don’t worry.”

“Alright, I’ll check the bank in a minute. Also, you’re paying for the food when you get back.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll have a word with my dad about a raise.”

“Did I pull you away from a party?”

“No, not really. We’re at a club.”

“Is that wise? You’re not going to panic?”

“I’m alright so far, Der Bear. If I get shaky, I’ll just go back to Alli’s apartment.”

“How are you doing?”

There’s something in the question that makes Stiles think this is the real reason why he’s called him at half past midnight on a Thursday. Derek is worried about him; he just doesn’t really know how to say that out loud.

“M’okay, I’ll be back Saturday morning.”

“Bit soon.”

Stiles hears the sizzling of chicken in the background.

That’s one thing he fucking loves about living with Derek Hale; a lot of the time, people are intimidated by his big mysterious leather wearing façade, but after moving in, that had completely gone out of the window. Derek is an adorable, sometimes grumpy, repressive, domesticated puppy.

“Why, you trying to get rid of me, sourpuss?”

“No, pretty much the opposite actually. I just don’t want you to come home if you’re not ready to.”

“Der, I didn’t come to France to get away from _you_. You’re not the problem, and neither is the apartment or work or college. I just…”

“Its fine, you don’t have to explain it, this is me you’re talking to, remember? I get it.”

There’s about ten seconds where Stiles can’t say anything. He can’t quite say anything because it’s true. Derek _does_ get it. He understands it on a level that nobody else has ever really been able to. He always has done, from the moment they met really. There’s always been that between them, if nothing else; it doesn’t have to be said, they just _know_.

“I love you.”

It’s the kind of love that happens when you spend four years with the same person almost every day, fighting monsters and dealing with the hiccoughs of normal life as well. It’s the kind of love that happens when you start off disliking someone and being scared of them, and end up realising just how much of a wonderful, not scary person they really are.

“I love you, Der,” he says again, “just – thanks, alright? Thanks for everything. You know you’re one of my best friends, yeah? You _should_ know that. You should just _know_ that by now.”

“Be careful,” is all Derek can say, and his voice is quiet and slightly croaky, and it makes Stiles smile again as he wipes the wetness from his eyes, sniffing a little.

“Idiot,” Derek adds, and Stiles can’t help laughing, shaking his head. He feels Allison come outside and sit down on the curb beside him, her arms threading through his free one, hugging the side of his body.

“Don’t be up till three in the morning writing, okay?” Stiles attempts a stern tone.

"Yeah, bye.”

“Everything okay?” Allison drops down beside him and leeches his warmth.

“I think so,” he says, turning his head to press a kiss to the top of her scalp.

“You wanna go home and watch Blue is the Warmest Colour again?”

He pulls his face back a little, raising his eyebrows at her, "don’t you want to carry on in there?”

“Nah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Scott at some point too, I don’t want to do that in the middle of a sweaty nightclub.”

“Oh god,” he sighs, but he stands and helps her to her feet as well, “I’m not looking forward to that.”

“I’ll buy you a kebab on the way home,” she bats her eyelids at him.

He grabs her hand and pulls her away immediately as she laughs, nudging him hard in the side before jumping on his back, pressing a kiss to his temple and snuggling into his neck as he carries her the rest of the way home.

* * *

 

“So,” Scott spoons a large lump of ice cream into his own mouth as he lounges in his underwear on Stiles’ sofa. Stiles, also in just his boxer briefs, sighs and sits on the coffee table in front of him, eating sweetcorn out of the can. Because fuck you, sweet corn is amazing. Also they haven’t been grocery shopping this week, "I talked to Allison”

“Fuck,” Stiles pauses, talking through a mouthful of yellow stuff, eyes wide.

“Yeah, fuck.”

“You’re evil,” Stiles states, glaring and finally gulping down his food, placing the can on the table beside him.

“No, just intuitive. Allison says you got some unresolved issues you need working out.”

“Understatement of the fuckin century.”

“Derek is asleep; I can hear him snoring in his bedroom.”

“So?”

“So, you can speak freely without him hearing you. When are you going to tell him that you’re in love with him?”

“Never, and you can’t make me.”

“No, I can’t. I could, however, let you not tell him, and let all that sexual frustration and man pain build up until you stink of arousal all the time and are so on edge around Derek that you can’t be in the same room with him because he’ll hear your beautiful, sadistic, petulant little heart beating like a jack hammer.”

“I hate you. I actually hate you so much. You and your French girlfriend.”

“Allison isn’t French and she’s not my girlfriend. But you are in love with Derek Hale.”

“I… might have… stirrings. What’s your point?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Mr Genius? Tell him. He’s an asshole, you’re a gigantic asshole; you can be assholes together.”

“Please stop saying asshole, you’re distracting me.”

“Stiles, you can’t keep doing this, it’s going to hurt the both of you in the long run.”

“Right, but if I tell him, it will also hurt.”

“No, there’s no guarantee of that. And you two… you’re different.”

“I – I’m scared, Scott,” Stiles finally gives up, sighing, voice cracking slightly, eyes stinging, lump gathering in his throat, "you know me, you know what I’m like, you said it yourself, I’m petulant and sarcastic and I can be a rude, temperamental dickwad.”

“Sound like someone else we know? Besides, those are only some of your personality traits, there’s way more to you than that. Like how unwaveringly loyal you are, how indomitably you care about the people you love, how self-sacrificial you can be for them, how clever you are, how gentle and understanding you can be, how enthusiastic you are. You’re not some generic knobjockey with no capacity for compassion; you’re just… you. And I love you,” Scott tells him, sitting forward and shoving a spoon of ice cream in his mouth so he has to wait until he’s swallowed to answer.

“Derek is doing so well. I don’t want to fuck his life up for him.”

“You’re already an integral part of it, man, look around. You live together, you’re best friends, you look after each other. If you were going to hurt him really badly, you would have done it already. You’re making excuses. You have to woman up, and talk to him about it. I know he’s not the best with words, but he loves you, Stiles, I’m sure of it.”

“I _know_ he loves me, that’s the problem. I’m so all over the place right now, my head is so scribbly and unfocused-”

“I’m going to stop you there. You have Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder; your head will always be scribbly and unfocused. The big question is, does Derek make it a little less scribbly and unfocused?”

“I – I don’t know.”

“When you’re with him, does he make everything else fade out? Do you focus on him? Does he make you feel warm and happy and invincible?”

Stiles closes his eyes and drops his chin to his chest, wetting his lips and breathing shakily, heart thudding fast against his chest.

“Yeah. Yeah, he does.”

“Well then, my friend,” Scott grins at him, taking his face and kissing him roughly between the eyebrows, “you have to tell him”

* * *

 

“Stiles…”

“Yes, Derek?”

“Is there a reason we’re ordering so much food?”

Stiles shakes his head and erratically feigns innocence as he takes the mountain of take out from the confused Papa John’s delivery guy, nodding at him and tipping him as Derek helps him put it all down on the table.

“Can’t a bro treat his other bro to lots of good food on a Friday night?”

“What have I told you about calling me bro?”

“Don’t. Sorry. Pulled pork pizza?” he offers, hands shaking where he goes to open the box, breath tufty, heart pumping way too fast. Derek frowns and takes Stiles’ hands, guiding him to sit down for a moment.

“Tell me what’s going on. Is it your father?”

“No, his check-up came through last week, he’s healthy as a horse. Although, I’m never quite sure why horses are inherently healthy animals. They don’t seem very healthy-”

“Stiles,” Derek says, still clutching both of his hands tightly, “breathe”

“Right. Right, I’m sorry, you must be really freaked out right now. I just… I wanted to do this right, but I know you hate eating at fancy restaurants and I know you’d hate to do it in a public settling, and I know you like Papa John’s when you get alarming news and-”

“Stiles, you’re scaring me. Please just spit it out.”

“Okay," Stiles breathes again, letting go of Derek’s hands and wiping his sweaty palms on the fabric of his boxer shorts, swallowing heavily and blinking once, tightly, slowly, terrified, "okay, I – I don’t know where to start. You… you remember how when we met properly I was this jumped up little shit with trust issues and you were this broody angsty creeper with the eyebrows?”

“Is this going somewhere?”

“Yeah, at least, it’s meant to. When we met, we were different people. Well, sort of. We’re still us now… just… less us. Older, more broken, but also better and happier?”

“Riiiiight?”

“Right, well, you see, when we first knew each other, our relationship was really unhealthy. Like, we fought all the time, you were physically imposing, I was emotionally manipulative; we clashed, and we didn’t like each other at all.”

“Stiles-”

“You wanted me to talk, Der,” he snaps a little, and Derek holds up his hands, nodding for him to carry on, “we didn’t like each other, but we knew. We knew, didn’t we? Like… we were frenemies, but we still knew. It was like this… acknowledgement. Like we’d talk about killing each other all the time, but we always just ended up protecting each other, saving each other, being there. And it was more than just because of Scott, right?”

Derek blinks a couple of times, before recognising something and drawing in a long, deep breath, nodding.

“Right.”

“Well I guess I’ve always known really, just looking at you… you’re Derek. You’re _my_ Derek. And I get surprised when I talk about you and people are confused because I can’t believe that not everyone has a Derek. Everyone should have a Derek. I can’t remember what I was like before I met you. Like… I don’t want to call it what everyone else calls it because we’re not everyone else. We’re us. We’re Stiles and Derek. And I thought that was it when we agreed to live together. I thought that would be okay, because we were just friends. Just buddies living together. Except we’re not. We’ve never been just friends, and… correct me, if I’ve got this wrong, but I don’t think we ever will be.”

Derek swallows and runs his hand through his hair. Stiles knows that if he could hear Derek’s heartbeat right now, it would be alarmingly fast, so he can’t even imagine what Derek can hear; the both of them panicking and freaking out most likely. He wonders how Derek can even hear him talk over it all.

“Well, I’d say that’s new, but it’s not, really, is it?”

“No, kinda been putting it off for a long time now, I reckon.”

“Do you need a bucket or something? You look like you’re going to barf.”

“I’m fine, all good. Just… terrified, I guess. We already have such a good thing going, I’ve been so pussy about ruining that; it’s so important to me.”

“ _You’re_ important to me, Stiles. If this whole thing is really causing you so much anxiety, do you really think this is what you want?”

“Yes, without a doubt, 100% want to fuck you at some point. Also probably eat all of this food and watch far too much television and be in love with you. I just-”

“Then it’s alright. You can stop panicking. We’ll figure it out. We always figure it out.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, visibly letting that concept sink in, “yeah, I guess we do, don’t we? We make a pretty good team.”

“The best,” Derek grins, slightly amused at how much this situation has been blown out of proportion, when really, all they are is two very damaged people who accidentally fell in love with each other. Two people who have always been able to work through things together, come up with a decent solution, protect each other, help each other think and grow. Two petulant assholes trying to not be such petulant assholes. Together. They’re together. And in love. And Stiles isn’t panicking. He feels like he should be panicking.

He doesn’t have time to panic though, because in the same breath, Derek captures his lips, and pulls the breath from his body, hands gravitating towards his face, warm and secure. That heat seeps quickly into his blood, and he can barely register anything but the touch of his palms against his face and his back settling against the sofa cushions, and the overwhelmingly warm weight of Derek’s body on top of his.

For the first time ever, he’s allowed to touch him freely, to taste him, to let his hands feather across Derek’s stomach underneath his t-shirt and to imagine that maybe he could really have this. Maybe this is good enough to overshadow the bad shit. No, it definitely is.

He smooths over the curve of Derek’s lower back as he pushes softly into Stiles’ touch, a moan slipping between their mouths, the intoxicating firmness and solidarity of larger hands languidly moving up and down his spine, drawing the hairs up and sending shivers through his blood, hitching his breath in his throat.

Its slow and needy and dirty and perfect and he really feels like he could get drunk on this; on Derek’s tongue and teeth against his jugular and the pressure of Derek’s body between his hips. His leg slips between Derek’s and he arches into the contact, unable to conceal the quiet, deep groan that escapes his lips.

“The food is going to go cold,” Stiles notes.

Derek moves towards his collar bone and doesn’t pause at the sound of his voice, kissing down further, hands sneaking under the hem of Stiles’ tee, tugging the fabric up over his head. Stiles shivers at the rush of cold air on his skin, hardening his nipples, and all at once Derek is licking at them, teasing them with his teeth, the attention sending jolts straight to his groin as he arches again and bits down on his bottom lip, his hands bunching in Derek’s hair.

He’s already embarrassingly hard, and thoroughly grateful that he’s wearing boxers, because his cock would be physically aching by now. Not that it isn’t of course, as he grinds down hard against Derek’s leg, gasping, desperate for friction of some kind. Derek makes an appreciative sound against his abdomen where he’s leaving a wet trail of kisses down the middle, shifting his legs slightly so they’re finally pressed together.

“Off, now,” Stiles’ voice is high and desperate as he grabs at Derek’s t-shirt, forcing him back up to his lips, teeth clacking together slightly, tugging the shirt over his head revealing plains of toned muscle that moves beneath a soft web of skin, smattered with dark hair.

“Fuck, that is not fair, I hate you.”

“Your dick says otherwise.”

“Shut up, you asshole,” Stiles makes a strangled noise when Derek dips down again, sucking a hickey into his hip in the same movement, deliberately snagging his teeth against the skin on the way sideways, before – _holy shit fuck jesus mary and joseph_.

Derek is mouthing at his cock through his boxers, his large hand playing with his balls, the other stroking at the skin at the base of his spine. Everything is unbearably hot and restrictive, the air unsatisfying in his lungs as pleasure gathers and whites out behind his eyes, pooling hard and almost painful in his pelvis and fuck if it isn’t the sexiest thing he’s ever experienced.

He can’t tell whether its Derek’s saliva or his own precum that’s dampening his bottoms, but the pressure and teasing becomes too maddening, and he lets out a petulant noise, hooking his ankles around Derek’s legs and flipping them fast enough that Derek can’t resist the movement. Then he’s wrenching Derek’s briefs down and wetting his lips before sinking his mouth down on his dick.

There’s a moment of silence before Derek arches his hips and lets out a long moan that’s closer to a sob, and Stiles has to remember to breathe through his nose as his heart thuds heavily and his cock twitches. Then he starts moving, his hands gripping gently at Derek’s hips and keeping them still, the small tug of Derek’s hands in his hair sending shocks of heat through his blood. He tastes hot and heavy on his tongue, and slightly salty. He struggles not to smile actually, because there’s a hint of pineapple in his precum and he remembers him eating it for breakfast.

Derek’s noises are getting louder and increasingly frantic, and Stiles pulls off, grinning a little as he licks a line up the shaft, rubbing his thumb in small, slow circles around the head. Derek gets the coherency to lift himself on his elbows and look down, and Stiles looks right at him, his free hand reaching down to palm himself through his boxers.

He drops back down and hollows his cheeks out, and Derek lets out his loudest groan yet, growling as he tugs Stiles back up and licks into his mouth, their tongues battling it out. Derek’s hands are shaking where he pulls Stiles’ boxers down over his ass finally, and Stiles loses his breath properly this time, gasping into his mouth when Derek gets a hand around him. The calloused fingers create a wonderful friction that makes him grab at Derek’s arms and pant, dropping their foreheads together, sweat beading on the surface of his skin, matting his hair to his forehead slightly.

“Fuck, its so not fair that you’re good at this too.”

Derek catches his earlobe between his teeth in reply, and Stiles pules against his neck, nails digging into Derek’s biceps. This is too much. He can’t believe he hasn’t just come everywhere yet; his body feels like its on fire, singing with sinful bliss. Its really not fair that Derek fucking GQ model college graduate werewolf Hale is also fantastic at sex. Its like the gods hate him and want him to suffer. Or the total opposite. He hasn’t decided yet.

“Lube,” Derek manages to croak out against his lips and Stiles reaches out sideways quickly, pulling the coffee table draw out so enthusiastically that it nearly crashes to the ground. He grapples for the bottle of durex, and Derek actually fucking laughs at him for how eager he is.

“Fuck you,” Stiles utters, slapping his chest.

“That’s the idea.”

“Honestly, dude, you’re gonna kill me.”

Derek doesn’t reply. Instead he just smiles and squirts the lube into his hands, continuing his ministrations with Stiles’ dick. He just moves to reach for a condom when Derek, once again mostly incoherent and glazed with lust that makes Stiles feel like he’s having some sort of elaborate religious experience, catches his wrist, shaking his head.

“Don’t need to; don’t get infections.”

“You lucky bastard.”

“I think this is a win-win thing this time.”

And fuck, he’s right. Stiles can’t help the low groan that tumbles from his lips when he slowly slips the first finger in, Derek’s heat enveloping it, the ring of muscle impossibly tight and inviting; just the thought of sinking into that heat making him harder and drying his throat.

Derek’s spine curves impulsively upwards again, pressing their chests together once more, and Stiles gets his free arm around his waist, dropping his head sideways to give Derek better access to assault his neck, the teeth and tongue making him forget his own damn name. Something in the back of his mind tells him that he’s going to regret letting him do that later, but he can’t bring himself to give a shit, too far gone now to stop him. Instead, he slips in a second finger and curves it at the knuckle, searching for that million dollar spot.

He moves one of them a slight millimetre and he can feel Derek’s claws growing out where his hands grip at his shoulder blades, the noise he makes better than any music Stiles has ever heard. When he opens his eyes, Derek’s irises are flashing red, and in a moment of intimacy and overwhelming affection, Stiles dips to feather a kiss to each eyelid.

“Now,” Derek says softly, quietly, desperately. And hell, Stiles isn’t one to argue with that, and with more lube on his hand, he strokes once, twice along his own dick, before he pushes in slowly.

He can’t help the broken whimper that crawls up his throat and trips through his lips as he bottoms out and takes a moment to fully come to terms with how incredibly amazing it feels to be balls deep in Derek Hale’s ass.

“I swear to god, Stiles, if you don’t move I’m going to make you.”

Stiles makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and pulls back, breathing heavily as he kisses sloppily into Derek’s mouth – he’s never going to get bored of being able to do that holy shit – and pushes back in.

It takes them a few minutes to find a rhythm that isn’t awkward or too overwhelming; but then Stiles hits up against Derek’s prostate and the rest is fucking history. Quite literally.

“I’m – I’m – fuck, close.”

“Don’t wor – me too, fuck, c’mon, Stiles, just come.”

Stiles can’t form sentences, too caught up in the snug heat around his cock, the tight grip of Derek’s fingers all over his back and chest, the taste of Derek’s mouth, the electric points of pleasure sparking in his muscles, drawing him on, yearning for release.

Then Derek bites down hard on his shoulder and he can’t hold back anymore, light exploding behind his eyes as the pressure erupts in his naval and he throbs inside Derek, his entire body shaking with climax.

He’s still coming when Derek tenses and he just manages to get a hand around him before hot, wet come leaks out onto his fingers and Derek moans his name, voice cracking, the both of them wheezing for breath as they clutch at each other, boneless and spent and riding the aftershocks of their orgasms.

“You keep lube in the coffee table draw?”

Stiles chokes slightly, spluttering before he nudges Derek in the ribs and curls up against him, heart still thundering in his chest and can’t help the stupid fucking heart boner he gets when Derek laughs, dry and light and beautiful.

When he next sees Scott and Allison he’s going to kiss them both full on the mouth for pushing him towards this, because honestly; there’s cum cooling on Derek’s stomach and thighs, and they’re both drenched in sweat that’s going to smell soon and basically fuckin welds their skin together, and their food will go cold if they leave it for much longer. But its so perfect. So fucking perfect that it almost hurts.

And Stiles knows things have changed now, shifted wordlessly in these moments that tick together, each one into the next as Stiles pushes up slightly and wraps his arms around Derek, who settles against his chest and nuzzles at his collar bone, scenting him like the giant fuckin puppy that he is. But it’s the good kind of change, he thinks, hopes, needs.

They have a long way to go from here, and lots of talking to do. They’ll probably argue a lot too, have issues with the glaring insecurities they both suffer with, struggle sometimes to articulate their emotions, to communicate. But that’s just what they’ve always done anyway, and they’re still here, together, in love.

Derek’s grip on him tightens slightly and Stiles hears his breathing steady out a bit more, and a few minutes later he knows he’s sleeping; and he knows in his bones that they’ll continue to be together for a long time yet.

 

 


End file.
